


cannonball

by gallaghcrs



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dancer Ian, Dubious Consent, M/M, New York City, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prostitution, Slurs, found in my drafts from forever ago and decided to continue it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-12 16:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18450338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallaghcrs/pseuds/gallaghcrs
Summary: Mickey moved to New York in an attempt to flee from his rough start in the South Side, which is cool and all except for the inexplicable loneliness that follows him wherever he goes.





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. 

He had always believed that being born into the Milkovich family fated him for certain disappointment and utter failure in everything he did -- he knew it, his family knew it, the entire goddamn South Side knew it. And despite the fact that he was living in New York with a job in an office as a fucking accountant with his own apartment, despite the fact that he avoided being stuck in the South Side forever, he still felt like that prophecy was coming true. He still felt lost, like was something was missing, like he was bored with himself and his life and nothing could cure it. He had a decent paycheck that wasn’t earned illegally, he wasn’t constantly on the run from the police, he didn’t have to deal with Terry and the shit-storm of problems that followed him around, and yet he still wasn’t satisfied. Maybe he was just selfish. 

It wasn’t like he was living smack dab in the center of New York fucking City, but he lived a pretty short distance from all of the commotion if you subtracted the time it took to shove through all of the traffic. His apartment was a shitty, run-down studio, littered with ashy sketches and unfinished paintings. Maybe that’s part of the reason he felt so empty -- every time he stepped inside and came face to face with all of his projects, he was hit with a strange sense of ‘what could have been’ and ‘what would never be.’ 

He never thought he was the art type. If you had asked teenage Mickey, the one living in the South Side, what he thought of art, he probably would have said something along the lines of ‘get that faggot shit away from me.’ Mickey didn’t realize how much he liked art until he moved to the city and saw art everywhere he looked -- in the graffiti that littered abandoned buildings, in the architecture of skyscrapers, in the fluid movement of crowds through Times Square. He couldn’t escape it.

And the truth is, he fucking loved art. All of it. He loved the feeling of refining a loose sketch, deepening the shades, lightening the highlights, until he got it just right. He loved mixing paints and finding the perfect color and creating abstract representations of his thoughts as well as placing details correctly to form a scene he found intriguing, like an empty beach or a crowded sidewalk. He loved architecture, too, found himself fascinated each time he ran into a building he hadn’t seen before, stared at the dramatic columns standing tall or the intricate framework. It wasn’t like he was particularly talented or anything, he just did it for fun, something to relax him after work. But everything he did, all of those paintings and drawings and useless ideas sat around his apartment collecting dust, because in a place like New York where the art industry was already oversaturated, who wanted the shitty works of a twenty-four year old antisocial accountant? 

That was another thing that may be causing the sinking feeling of overall pointlessness and directionless. His lack of human interaction was really starting to have an effect on him. He lived alone, and the only people he talked to were his co-workers, who were mostly much older than him and were interested in talking about things like the weather and their growing families. He had no friends, and he liked to think that that was okay, that he didn’t need anybody else, but as his life dragged on in the same monotone routine every fucking day, he started to think that was a load of bullshit. Funny how in one of the biggest cities in the United States he had never felt such an overwhelming loneliness. 

But what-fucking ever, that was the Milkovich curse, right? Maybe nothing could ever make him truly happy if that’s what fate had decided for him when he was born into the care of Terry Milkovich, and maybe he couldn’t escape it no matter what he did. So he stopped thinking about it, stopped caring so much, and just let himself float through life, crawling through each day, no longer looking for a purpose because he knew he would never find one. 

He had off work Saturday, so on Friday, he followed his usual routine. He stopped home to change clothes, because he had to dress in ‘business casual’ attire, (honestly, what the fuck did that even mean?) and there was no way he was wearing a fancy-ass collared shirt and dress pants to the local gay bar that was barely standing. Seriously, he thought one day that thing was going to fucking collapse with him inside, with the way the bricks were cracked and slowly deteriorating. It didn’t look too pretty on the outside, but most of the guys on the inside were decent, and he figured getting fucked in a back alley by a dude he found semi-attractive was better than not getting fucked at all. 

It was usually cold in New York, especially in the fall and winter, but it had been particularly freezing all day. When he stopped by his apartment and changed out of his work clothes, he grabbed a heavy jacket and a scarf and headed out the door, purposely crunching the leaves that lay flat against the pavement as he walked. It was a short distance to the Fairy Tale, but as the wind whipped against his face and made his hands feel numb even as they were shoved in his pockets, he found himself wishing he would’ve just taken a taxi. 

As he turned a particularly busy corner in the small town he resided in, he passed by a familiar face. Every fucking time Mickey walked to the bar, the same dude was stood near the same crosswalk, playing the same guitar with the same case spread out on the sidewalk. He made it a habit to reluctantly slip a few bills into his guitar case every time he passed him.He continued on down the street, the sounds of the guitar still ringing in his ears.

The calming, simple tunes from the acoustic guitar faded and were replaced by thundering booms of heavy bass lines and electronic beeps of whatever the fuck kind of music they were playing inside the bar. Even standing outside, the music was audible and made the sidewalk feel like it was vibrating a little bit. He ducked inside, shaking his head at the eerie feeling he still got whenever he stepped in the place. 

As per usual, he he found an unoccupied stool that had empty seats on either side of it. He waved the bartender over, asked for a beer, and waited. He never approached anyone -- he didn’t know how. When he had tried fucking girls to mask his sexuality, he was never shy, he’d just ask if they were down and they always were -- no problem. With guys, it was different. He didn’t know how to get their attention or talk to them or flirt with them, so he simply waited. There were always the dancers, but what the fuck was the point in paying twenty-five bucks for a lap dance if you got all heated up for nothing? So he stayed off to the side, sipping on his drink until someone would inevitably notice that he was alone and start talking to him. 

He was halfway done with his beer when someone slid onto the stool to his right. He said nothing to Mickey, but he ordered some fruity drink that sounded expensive as fuck. Mickey stole a glance at him, and the only thing he was able to see in that short amount of time was that he was, evidently, old as fuck. Goddammit, this is about the last thing he wanted. 

“You here alone?” he finally asked, and Mickey looked over at him, keeping his eyes there a few extra seconds. His first observation was definitely correct. Even under the blinking, multi-colored lights, he could see the wrinkles around his eyes and in the crease of his forehead and the way what was left of his hair was a light grey, combed back with hair gel -- an attempt to bring a sense of lost youth to his appearance that clearly was not working.

He swallowed a sip of his beer, trying to come up with his best option before answering. If he said he was here alone, that might egg the dude on even more, and there was no way he was fucking (and certainly not getting fucked by) a wrinkly, dried out ancient artifact, no matter how desperate he was. “Here with my boyfriend.” He hoped and fucking prayed that he’d leave him alone so he could find someone to get off with, but of course, being a Milkovich also meant endless heaps of bad luck. 

“I don’t see him around here,” the guy said, inching the slightest bit closer to Mickey on his barstool and gently tracing his fingertips over his cracked knuckles, which were wrapping impossibly tighter around his glass. For a split-second, he considered punching him, but there was no way he was risking getting back into the habit of living in and out of jail. He jerked back instead, letting the guy’s hand fall limply on the countertop. Mickey felt like he was going to vomit, so he stared straight ahead, hoping the unwanted propositioner would give up and fuck off.

“Told you, my fuckin’ boyfriend’s here,” he said again, trying desperately to convey his disinterest through his tone. But Mickey was never good with words or speaking or expressing any specific emotion, so his voice came through as more choked and confused than ‘leave me the fuck alone.’ 

“He doesn’t have to know,” he whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the music, and Mickey shuddered. He propped his elbows up on the counter to lean in close to Mickey, his breath hot and gross and creepy as hell.

“He knows now.” Mickey spun around at the new voice to see a tall redhead dressed in a sparkling black tank top and fucking short shorts sliding over the stool to his left. The bottoms of his eyelids were coated with a thick layer of eyeliner that matched the cheesy black feather boa hanging loosely around his neck, draped over his broad shoulders. Mickey was so fucking intrigued by the way his muscles were defined even through the darkness of the room and the way his eyes were sharp and the way his face was so perfectly sculpted, that what he said almost didn’t register in his mind. “I’m his boyfriend, so you better fuck off before I find a reason to call security on your ass.” 

With a disappointed sigh, he got up and left, leaving behind his cocktail that was almost still filled to the brim. “The fuck was that for?” 

“Saw he was pissing you off. Didn’t like the way he ignored that you said you had a boyfriend. So I pretended to be your boyfriend so he’d leave before your actual boyfriend comes back. Pretty simple, now I gotta get back to work.” One of Mickey’s rules for coming to the bar was to not pay for shitty lap dances from decent looking guys. But fuck his rules. This guy wasn’t just decent looking, and if he had to pay to get his dick and ass on him, even if it was through multiple layers of clothes, then he was gonna fucking do it. He usually had to settle for guys who were less than attractive, and he usually didn’t mind because he only saw them once, so it really didn’t matter. But god, this guy was fucking gorgeous, and Mickey deserves to treat himself every once in a while, right?

“Hey, you do that dancin’ shit?” Mickey called after him as get closer to disappearing within the crowd, but thank fuck, he stopped and turned around and grinned at Mickey’s question. 

“Yeah, I do that dancin’ shit,” he answered, mocking Mickey’s tone. With a flick of his boa and a not so subtle lick to his lips, he continued. “What about your boyfriend?”

“That was a lie, made it up so old dude would hop the fuck back. How much?” Mickey finished off his beer, slamming the glass down on the table before he got up and started flicking through the money in his pocket. He folded back the bills, waiting for his reply, and wondered if he was really gonna do this shit. Paying someone to grind him into a couch in the middle of a crowded bar was something he thought he’d avoid like it was the fucking plague, but there he was, practically drooling at the opportunity in front of him. Yeah, he was really gonna do this shit. 

“Twenty-five bucks,” he clicked his tongue at the end of his sentence. And in a split second, Mickey was reduced to a horny, uncontrollable teenager as he fumbled to count the cash correctly and hand over the money. He almost dropped a couple bills in the process, but he held on fast, his mind racing because, yeah, okay, this was happening. The redhead pulled his shorts away from his skin, prompting Mickey to place the cash in the open space. Biting his lip and nearly choking on a gasp of air, he slipped the money in, the skin of his fingers just barely brushing against the skin of the man’s abdomen. How did he let himself get so fucking captivated in such a short amount of time? Maybe it was due to his natural curiosity when it came to art. 

He let him grab his hand and pull him through the dance floor to one of the couches, and it was then that he really got to see his ass. It looked fucking great in those shorts, but he was willing to bet it looked even better without them. 

Red, as Mickey decided to call him (a homage to his shiny ginger locks) since he had no fucking clue what his real name was, gripped Mickey by the shoulders and led him down on the leather couch. As Red straddled his waist and started swinging his hips, Mickey became so lost in his touch that he forgot how to worry about how many people had been on this couch before him and how many people could see him right now.

Natural instinct had Mickey crawling out of his skin, desperate to touch him back. But when he moved one of his hands from its position splayed out against the leather and tried to run it across the toned chest in front of him, Red grabbed his wrist and pinned it back in place. Mickey’s hips were threatening to buck up, seeking moremoremore, but he held back and kept them in place as the dancer rolled his crotch over him in time with the music. 

“You want more?”Red breathed over his ear, his voice low and dark as it fanned over Mickey’s skin. He gripped Mickey’s shoulders and ground into his lap at a harsher pace, blurring the lines between what was real and what was fake and Mickey felt like he couldn’t breathe as he choked out the only strangled words he could manage. 

“Fuck, yes.” Mickey assumed it was a bit of teasing, something all of the dancers were supposed to say to everyone in an attempt to make the dance more personal or some shit.

“Thirty more bucks and we can pay the bathroom stalls a visit.” Red was still circling his hips, pressing down and lifting up and repeating, all while staring Mickey dead in the eyes. But to Mickey, it felt like everything stopped. His movements and the music and all of the drunken men around them.

Mickey’s mission was to show up at this bar, have a drink, and end the night with a sloppy fuck with someone he’d never have to see again. But it felt like with every word the redhead spoke, with every roll of his hips, more of his mission broke apart and slowly self-destructed. Thirty bucks? He was sure he’d never find another guy who was anywhere near as attractive as this one in this club, so a temptation that he couldn’t resist seeped into his mind, and he figured he could spare a measly thirty bucks. 

“I - okay, yeah,” Mickey stuttered, his breathing choppy as he spoke. “Let’s fuckin’ go.” He was being led through the dance floor again, weaving through groups of patrons towards the back corner of the room. The bathrooms had an entirely different atmosphere from the rest of the bar. It was quieter, but the muffled booms of the music outside still rung through the walls. The lightbulbs were so bright they seemed almost clinical, but Mickey guessed that was just because his eyes were still adjusting after peering through the dark for so long. The taller man looked down at him expectantly, caught up in an incredibly awkward silence as Mickey fumbled around for his money with clumsy hands. 

“Name’s Curtis, by the way,” the guy, Curtis, said as he took the money and crumpled it up in his shorts. He shoved Mickey into one of the stalls, kicking the door shut behind them as he wasted no time dropping to his knees and getting to work on Mickey’s jeans. 

Once the layers of fabric were out of the way, he started by giving Mickey’s dick a few quick strokes of his hand before he dove down, wrapping his mouth around the head and keeping one hand steady at the base. Mickey arched his back against the wall when Curtis lurched forward, deeper, stretching his lips and his throat. He looked so fucking good like this, strands of red hair flopping around his face with every swirl of his tongue, pink lips remaining pursed even when he licked flat lines along Mickey’s length, green eyes fluttering up to meet his every few moments. But for some reason, he couldn’t focus on that.

All he could focus on was the reality of the situation. How many dudes did this guy blow in one night? He just kept thinking about Curtis blowing random dudes he didn’t even find attractive on the floor of a dirty bathroom to earn enough money to live, and the more he thought about it, the more Mickey realized he was one of those random guys. It hit him that Curtis didn’t want this, he didn’t want to be stuck in this club sucking dick for thirty bucks. It felt so wrong. The thought made him feel guilty as fuck, disgusting, and he suddenly remembered why he hadn’t done this before. 

“Shit, stop.” Curtis pulled off, his lips puffy and glossy as he looked up to Mickey with worried eyes. 

“Did I do something?” he blurted, dropping his hand from Mickey’s waist to lay flatly on the tiled floor. 

“No, no, not at all, I just,” Mickey stumbled over his words, because what the fuck was he supposed to say in a situation like this? ‘Sorry, but I felt bad for paying you to blow me, so now I’ve gotta leave in the middle of it.’ Yeah, no fucking way. He pulled his jeans back up over his thighs, wishing he had the power to disappear as he clumsily tucked his semi-hard dick back in his boxers, turning around to walk out of there and find a new gay bar because he could never be seen at this one again. 

“Wait,” Curtis said, standing up with his lips parted. Mickey froze in the doorway of the stall, tempted to run out before he could get another word in. “I - uh - I didn’t get you off…you want your money back or something?”  

“What?” Did he really think Mickey was going to make him give him his money back after that? Did this happen a lot? “No, keep it.” Mickey stormed out in a blur, shoving into shoulders and hip bones as he pushed his way to the front of the bar so he could get the fuck out of there as soon as possible. But because Mickey was never good with words, and because Mickey was never good at sticking around long enough to use his words, Curtis was left behind thinking that he wasn’t good enough, that he wasn’t worth thirty dollars.   
  



	2. Chapter 2

Mickey’s alarm went off and he realized abruptly how cold he was. He squinted and blinked a few times, eyes still burning at the sudden light pouring in from his bedside window, then shut off his alarm. He must have kicked his blankets off in the middle of the night because they were laying in a pool on the floor and he felt like he was in fucking Antarctica. Grabbing his phone from his nightstand he checked the time: 8 o’clock on a Tuesday morning and he had an hour to get to work.

He didn’t have the worst job in the world. Despite his opposition to education in high school, he found out as he got older that he was actually quite good at math — not like, genius Einstein level good, but decent enough. And a part of him sort of liked the routine of it all, the repeating patterns of numbers in his job and also the general habits he grew into from actually working and not just pulling scams. He liked the stability he found from his job, a vast difference from how he grew up, but he was learning that change wasn’t always a bad thing.

No, the bad thing was days like this, days where he felt like doing literally anything fucking else than going to work in the morning to listen to his awful coworkers complain the whole goddamn time. He was fucking exhausted somehow, even though he had done nothing the night before.

With way more effort than he would have liked to put in, he managed to get ready, pulling himself out of bed and into a nice shirt and dress pants. He grabbed a poptart on the way out the door (cookie dough, arguably the best flavor) and ate it on his way down the sidewalk. It was even colder than the day before, maybe it would snow later.

Unfortunately, his walk to work cut right by the Fairytale, and he hung his head to the ground and let out a sigh as he walked past it, focusing on his breath which he could see clearly in the cool air. It looked so much more depressing in the day without the flashing lights and the music and the men wandering in and out. There was something uncomfortable about it in the daylight, like he could see how grimy the place really was, and he felt ashamed every time he saw it.

He still had his head hung down when he heard a loud crash and bang from down the street, but not for long, because he quickly perked up to see where the sound was coming from. He followed the noises to an apartment down the street, where a man stood in the doorway, yelling about something that Mickey couldn’t hear. Then, he followed the direction of the man’s shouts a few feet down the sidewalk, and there stood a young man with red hair — no. It wasn’t the guy from the bar, right? Mickey was frozen, watching the scene unfold, watching the man in the doorway as he took a few steps closer to the redhead, causing the younger man to turn away and power walk in the opposite direction, hands clutching his face.

At this new angle, Mickey could see clearly that it was him. And as he walked closer to Mickey and farther away from the pissed off older man, he could see now that he was wearing nothing but a pair of torn up jeans and a tank top, and there was blood seeping through his fingers where he was clutching the side of his face.

Mickey looked around. Surely, someone else on this street would see the young man with blood on his face and go help him. People looked, people noticed, people stared, but none of them did anything. He checked his watch: 8:29. He had time. He couldn’t just let him go, he was obviously hurt. “Hey,” Mickey called, rushing towards him. He stopped walking, looked up, and froze when he saw Mickey approaching him. “Hey, are you alright? You need me to call someone for you?”

“No, I…” Up close, the damage to his face looked even worse. There was more blood than he thought and he was pretty badly bruised as well, with bruises on his arms too. “It was just a - a stupid fight, I’ll be fine.”

It really wasn’t any of Mickey’s business, and it was going to make him late for work, but what kind of asshole would be be if he didn’t at least try to help? A fucking huge asshole, at the least. “I remember you. I was with you on Friday at the club.” Curtis — that was his name, right? — just shrugged, looking at the ground. “Yeah, yeah, you got the creep off my back when you told him you were my boyfriend. Thanks for that.” Still no response. “Maybe I could repay you for that? Help you get cleaned up?”

Curtis took his hand away from his face and looked down at the blood staining his fingers. He winced when a gust of wind blew past, light hair standing up on his arms. “Sure,” he mumbled, though Mickey could barely understand what he had said. He checked his watch again — he’d definitely be late for work. He might as well just call in sick.

“I got some bandaids and shit back at my apartment, it’s not too far,” Mickey said. Reluctantly, Curtis shrugged, and started following him down the sidewalk. While he still had time, Mickey pulled out his phone and dialed his boss’s number. Surely, she’d be pissed, but he didn’t call off too often so he hoped that would soften the blow a bit. “Hey, Leanne, it’s Mickey. I’m not gonna be able to make it in today, got a nasty cold.”

“Dammit,” she sighed. Mickey liked his boss. She was understanding, young, had worked very hard for her position and continued to work hard every day, and Mickey had a lot of fucking respect for her. He always felt bad calling off just because he didn’t want to disappoint her. “Okay, it’s fine. We shouldn’t be too busy today. Get some rest.”

“Thanks.” He hung up in a hurry before she could change her mind. It was then that he noticed Curtis watching him with an intense gaze. “Huh?”

“Did you call off work for me?”

“What?” Mickey asked. “No, no I am actually sick.

“Okay.”

-

“Damn,” Mickey said, gently rubbing a damp cloth over the bloody marks on the stranger’s face. He had Curtis sitting on the kitchen table and an array of supplies from a first aid kit sprawled out next to him, including band aids and antibiotics. “He got you pretty good.” He didn’t want to ask what had happened, that seemed nosy and it wasn’t what Mickey was here for. Mickey was here to help him fix up his wounds, not to invade in his personal life.

“I remember you, too,” Curtis said, changing the subject. He looked at Mickey with scrutinizing eyes, face screwing up in confusion until he finally realized why he recognized him. His expression fell, eyes avoiding Mickey’s. “Sorry about that.”

“About what?” Mickey asked. There were a few minor scratches on his face, but most of the blood had actually come from a nosebleed. It would be too hard to fix up and he’d heal up pretty quickly. He just hoped his nose wasn’t broken.

“Friday night,” Curtis said. “Sorry. I guess I was just having a bad day, or maybe I’m just not your type, or you were disappointed, or-“

“Hey, what?” Mickey asked again, taking his attention away from the man’s face for a few moments. “Curtis, I wanted you to stop because I felt bad about paying you for that. I don’t know, it’s dumb. I just felt kind of guilty and like it was wrong.”

Curtis shrugged. He was still wearing a thin tank top, and Mickey was thinking about letting him take one of his old jackets so he wouldn’t freeze to death on his way home. “I get it, I guess.” He said it like he didn’t get what Mickey meant at all, but he didn’t want to push it any further. “Who’s Curtis though?”

“The fuck do you mean?” Mickey laughed. “You’re Curtis, stupid.”

“Ah, shit, right,” Curtis, (or not Curtis?) said. “Curtis is just my stage name. I’m not used to people calling me that outside of the club.”

Okay. So, officially, Mickey could say that he had invited someone whose name he didn’t even know inside his apartment and had called off work for him. Not that he was particularly eager to go to work or anything, but still. He wanted to be mad at himself and give himself a lecture about how stupid he was being, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t see simply wanting to help someone who was in trouble as a bad thing, and Not-Curtis didn’t seem to have bad intentions anyway. “Oh, right,” Mickey said, nodding like he should have known this whole time. “You got a real name, then?”

He hesitated. “Ian,” he said, but he said it with such uncertainty that Mickey doubted that was actually his name. Whatever, he didn’t want to press any further, and if he didn’t want to give him his real name then he really didn’t need to.

“Well, Ian,” Mickey said, cleaning up the last of the blood with a final swipe of the washcloth. “That’s about as good as it’s gonna get.” Mickey thought he had done a pretty good job. Growing up in the South Side, he wasn’t a stranger to having to clean himself up after getting into fights. The bruising still looked pretty nasty, but there wasn’t much Mickey could do to fix that, so this would have to be good enough.

Ian brought a hand up to gently touch his face, wincing when he touched his nose. It would probably be sore for a while, but Mickey had taken a look at it and he was pretty sure it wasn’t broken — he would know, considering how many times he’s had his nose broken. “Thanks,” he said softly. “It feels a lot better now.”

“I don’t wanna kick you out, but if you want I can call you a cab home or something,” Mickey suggested. He knew he didn’t want Ian to leave, but he also knew it was best for him not to get attached to people. That never ended well.

“It’s okay,” Ian said, grimacing as he stood up. He rolled his neck, cracking it loudly. “I don’t really have anywhere to go, I’ll probably just walk down to the club and see how long it’ll be before I can work again.”

Woah. Okay. That was a lot at once.

Mickey grabbed the side of the kitchen counter to steady himself and cleared his throat. “You mean you’re homeless?”

Ian shrugged. “I like to think of myself more as a...wanderer, but sure, if you wanna call it that.”

Shit. Mickey felt fucking awful. He was so sweet, probably no older than 19 or 20, and he was living on the streets of New York in the dead of winter. He thought he was used to the epidemic of homelessness in New York City by now — you could barely walk two blocks without seeing someone passed out on the sidewalk in front of a cab and a sign. Mickey always felt bad, of course he did, everyone did, but maybe he was just desensitized from seeing it so often.

“And what do you mean you have to find out when you can work again?” he asked, changing the subject before he got physically ill.

“I look like shit. Covered in bruises and scrapes. My boss won’t let me work like this.”

“Bullshit,” Mickey remarked. “He has to let you work. Who cares about a bruise or two?”

“A lot of people, actually,” Ian said. “I’ll be fine. I have a bit of money saved, it should be enough until I can work again.”

Mickey dug into his pants pocket and took out his wallet. He had to help. “Hey, look, here’s a twenty. Put that towards a nice coat, it’s fucking cold out there, alright?”

He held it out to Ian, waiting for him to take it. But he didn’t. Rather, he stared at it with a certain contempt, so long that it became awkward and Mickey quickly retracted the money. “I don’t need your charity,” Ian said. “Thanks, I appreciate it. I do. But I can take care of myself.”

It was definitely a shock that he’d turn away the money and Mickey tried hard to not let it upset him, but he just couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t want help. He would freeze to death out there in just a tank top, but whatever — he couldn’t force him to take the money, and Mickey would probably forget about it in a few days anyway. “Oh. Okay.”

“Sorry if that seemed rude,” Ian said, apparently sensing the confusion and discomfort in Mickey’s voice. “Seriously, though. Thanks for this…” he pointed to his face and smiled. “That guy was a real asshole.”

Mickey had never figured out why they were fighting. He doubted Ian would tell him why, but he was curious. “What was his problem, anyway?”

“I...well — maybe it’s best you don’t know.”

Of course that only made Mickey want to know even more. “Right.”

“Uh...see you around I guess?”

Mickey nodded. He did want to see him again, that he had to admit. Mostly because he wanted to make sure nothing bad happened to him, like earlier that day, and also just because he liked his company. He was interesting to talk to, a change from talking to the same three people from work every day. “Yeah, I mean, you know where I live,” Mickey said with a laugh.

He moved towards the door and reluctantly held it open for Ian. He watched him leave, worrying that it would be the last time he saw him. He had nothing, he probably felt like he was nothing, and the more Mickey tried to put himself into Ian’s shoes the more sick to his stomach he felt. Against his better judgement, he was following Ian down the apartment stairs in just moments. “Hey, Ian?” he called. Ian paused, looking up from halfway down the staircase. “I know you said you don’t need my help, but tonight is going to be, like, record cold temperatures. I just saw it on the weather today.”

“I’ll find some blankets.”

“No, Ian,” Mickey protested. “Seriously, you could get hurt out there tonight.” Ian was silent. “Would you wanna maybe...sleep here tonight? I have a comfy couch and a hot shower that’s all yours.”

Ian looked down at the bottom of the stairs like he was thinking about making a run for it to escape from an awkward rejection, but then he looked back up at Mickey with a soft smile and hopeful eyes. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Mickey told himself it was just one night, just one night so he wouldn’t get hypothermia, or something even worse.

Ian turned back towards and Mickey and started walking back up the steps, and Mickey shut the door behind them. 


End file.
